Dark
by JonasGrant
Summary: The Tyranids get their act together, the Orkz finally unite and the Necrons wake up, with the outcome one would expect; everyone else is driven to the edge of extinction. This is the story of a few survivors as they try to escape their fate. If you do head in, don't expect fuzzy bunnies; this story is titled Dark, and that's not laziness on my part. Don't say I didn't warn you.


The Commissar sat in silence, strapped to the seat by safety bars and a set of buckles that would put the most over-done baby-seat to shame.

His worn and discolored hat masked the man's eyes from his troops, but even with the safety bars pressing him against the wall, he managed to appear hunched, tired.

All of them were tired, of course, overworked to the breaking point, but his weariness went further than just that. The Guardsmen surrounding him were young, too young to really remember the Imperium in its glory days, but he did, he recalled a time when they had glorious cities, so full of life and energy you could see them from orbit, a time when life flourished and humans dominated it.

He remembered that day, one bloody day, when the hive fleet had appeared in the Sol system. Most of the Imperium's might had been unable to get there in time, he himself had been aboard the _Suchima_, a Destroyer who had arrived just in time to see the hive fleet pull away from Terra, leaving a lifeless husk behind for humanity to mourn over.

It had not been the end, not right away, but without the Emperor's light, the mighty Imperial Fleet was dead in the water, unable to effectively navigate the Warp. Blind, paralyzed and scattered, mankind became easy prey, to Tyranids and every other threat out there. They were not the last to fall.

Although the survivors only learned about it later, their defeat had opened the way for the Tau empire to suffer a similar fate. The young race, in desperation, opted to uplift an Ork warband, give it momentum and send it at the hive fleet that slowly wiped them out.

The Waaaagh! plowed its way through the Tyranids, but barely made a dent, conquering a handful of planets, but unable to achieve victory in space, the warband moved on, carrying momentum. It marched on Maccrage, an enemy it could actually fight against, and turned the once proud Ultramarines into barely more than a desperate resistance group.

The Commissar had been there as well to see the Emperor's finest succumb before endless hordes of greenskins, blue armors stained with blood as the stood their ground, their mighty bolters roaring to the end. He had shot a few of his men for cowardice, but it was still okay then, there was still a line between reason and treason then.

It was the Tau who supplied them with vessels able to safely navigate the Warp once more, those hated xenos were the only reason humanity still existed, a notion that went directly against all he had learned in his life.

The Orkz did not stop there, however. They infiltrated the webway, somehow, flooding it with sheer numbers and though that posed little threat to the Eldar race in itself, the Orkz' loud and flamboyant presence attracted both Tyranids and Necrons as well. To this day, nobody could tell for sure what went down in the webway, but it had been the downfall of the Dark Eldars and the tolling of the bell for their Craftworld brethren's. Most theorized the Dark ones had asked for help and their cousins had responded.

The two quarrelling nations died together, like estranged brothers living their final hour side by side.

It was then that the Necrons chose to rise, an event often pictured as a skeleton waking up and looking in the fridge for a snack, only to find cockroaches and green rats devouring everything. A vigorous stomping session ensued, but it only caused vermin to spread all over the house and the skeleton to slowly starve.

Now, the Orkz had lost their momentum, still spreading all over the galaxy like fleas on a mutt, but only ending up as food to the hive, whereas Necrons always came out victorious against both foes, but, unable to replace their losses, slowly withered away before the constant assaults.

Throwing a glance at Captain Valkarius, some fresh faced officer in charge of the troops filling this Aquila Lander, Commissar Bowen was reminded of the first officer he'd shot for heresy, a young lad seduced by servants of the arch-enemy. They had heard nothing from them in forty years without the Emperor sitting on his throne, and that weighted heavily on the old Commissar.

Had the Inquisition shared some of its knowledge before it was all but wiped away, Bowen could have provided his men with answers on whether hell would break lose any day now or, maybe, if Chaos was in as bad a shape as the rest of them.

The Captain smiled under his helmet and gave Bowen a thumbs up. Fekking optimist.

"You look tense, sir!" Called the boy, surprisingly calm given the circumstances.

Bowen shook his head, almost sadly, "And you look stupid, son."

Undermining an officer's authority in front of his men went against everything he'd learned in Schola, but the same could be said for mostly everything he did these days.

The kid's smile vanished, "Sir?"

"That's better. Today, you will hold someone's intestine with both hands, might even be yours, be ready, be focused and, by the fields of Terra, you're an officer, look the part!"

Anger seeped on Valkarius' features, hardening his soft, snow white face. Close enough.

The planet they were heading for had once been an important forge world, might still be; the Orkz had swept over the world in a few months and moved on, with luck, there would still be survivors, working machinery, maybe even weapons.

Their primary objective, however, was to find Promethium, any form of fuel, and get it back to the fleet. The fleet's reservoirs were running dry and they were unlikely to reach another source of fuel, unless some of the ships were left behind.

And with every vessel at four times its intended capacity, this meant the crew would be sacrificed as well.

Bowen's team would not be carrying this burden alone, however; a hundred more expeditions had been sent all over the forge world's surface, not half of them would make it back and they knew it. They did not know what resided down there, but their enemies had long since understood humanity's dependence on fuel and were sure to have ambushes set up wherever Promethium could be found.

Three knocks shook the cockpit's door and Bowen seemed to slump even further in his seat. He felt like the protagonist of a horror vid… No, he felt like the protagonist of every horror vid filmed in the last forty years, walking back into the darkness on purpose every time because that's all he could do, until he died and someone else took his place.

Some times, he even wondered why anyone bothered to carry weapons anymore, as they tended to just draw attention get them killed faster, that's why he used a bolt pistol with stealth munitions. Not nearly as powerful as the regular things, but better than a stubgun.

Some bear of a man, seated to the Commissar's right, held a supressed Autogun, the kind normally used by sharpshooters, but without a scope. This man knew the score and he confirmed it by slapping a white sticker on all of his limbs. His name, Geoffrey James, and his blood group, were written on each.

Bowen had them tattooed to his extremities. This was one of a thousand tricks he'd picked up over the years, like covering all insignias with black tape, wearing running shoes instead of combat boots and, more importantly, not roaring like a Carnifex at the first sign of trouble. He used his combead and kept a level tone at all times.

Yelling unnerved people and drew attention, so he spoke to the men, calm and collected, "Once you're out there, I want everyone to stay within earshot, keep an eye on each other and use cover. We're not looking for a fight, we get the fuel and leave, nothing to be a hero about, if you die here, they won't say it, but everyone will think you died like an idiot…" He looked at the kids' shocked expressions, a few veterans nodding to each other, then added, "And you'll ruin my day; I hate having to rewrite the same condolence letter over and over again with a different name every time."

This got him some dark chuckles from those with enough humor left. One of the kids vomited on his neighbor, who calmly wiped the Guardsman's breakfast from her breastplate with the regimental flag in her thigh pocket.

Used to be that flag danced proudly in the wind, now it wiped vomit off some kid who should have had a bright future, not be stuck running around the muck with these idiots.

Bowen grinned at the irony and, as the shuttle's ramp dropped, pulled the safety bars and harness off him before leaping out of the shuttle, still grinning, as a thick black smog rolled up into the troop bay.

Ashes, dust and powdered coal; clouds of the stuff filled every inches of this world, making it impossible to see beyond ten paces ahead. The whole planet could still be overrun by Orkz and nobody would know.

The men piled out of their transport with apprehension, silence soon replacing the rumble of their ship's engines as the thing departed. The twelve Guardsmen hesitated between securing their landing zone and sticking close to one another, finally opting to form a circle and wait for orders.

The Captain looked around in silence, grimacing at the task he now had to face.

Bowen turned to him, "You look tense, Captain."

The other nodded, "I hate my job."


End file.
